


a lot of things can happen in a lifetime like yours

by fiddleogold_againstyoursoul



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 02:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6220075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiddleogold_againstyoursoul/pseuds/fiddleogold_againstyoursoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mormor from their first meeting, short episodes from the falling of Sebastian Moran.</p><p>Rated Explicit for one blowjob scene - the rest is glossed over - and mild Angst for the rest of it.</p><p>'Now, see, let's get straight to the point, hmm? You're in love with me.'<br/>Sebastian freezes, but Jim's barreling on mercilessly.<br/>'You love me, or you think you do.' He says matter-of-factly, twirling the cherry stalk. 'And at the start it was flattering, so I let it slide. It doesn't affect your aim. It doesn't affect your respect or self-discipline, but Tiger, it's killing you, isn't it?'</p>
            </blockquote>





	a lot of things can happen in a lifetime like yours

**Author's Note:**

> First Mormor fic. I've always loved this pairing yet have been skeptical about my ability to write for it.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr [ here. ](http://theswiftone27.tumblr.com)

Sebastian doesn't normally like crowded places, but he's nor adverse to the feel of this bar: the music is bearable, not threatening to rupture his eardrums; the crowd seems almost friendly, almost inviting as they break apart and weave together again to the beat of the snare. He drums his fingers against his scotch, looking around with hooded eyes. His hands itch every time someone walks by; he stops his fingers from inching towards the knife concealed in his jacket multiple times. The army did a number on him - Sebastian may have survived the war, but he will never escape it. Not completely, anyway.

He closes his eyes and downs his drink, calls for another.

_I'm so fuckin' pissed. Gonna be so fuckin' hungover tomorrow._

Sebastian's eyes snap open, alert, when the material of someone's suit brushes over the seat next to his with a soft, barely audible rustle.

_oh._

The pale-faced man who has features so sharp and feminine he could almost be called pretty is looking straight at him with suggestive dark eyes, tongue poking out almost flirtatiously. Sebastian shifts, tries not to show his discomfort. He should be used to people staring by now, but most of them stare in disgust, or curiosity. This man's gaze is bordering on intrusion. 

'Hi,' he says after a while, holding out a powder-white hand to Sebastian. The accent is fiercely Irish, hitting Sebastian hard. He blinks and draws his hand away from his jacket again, slips into the pretty man's grip briefly.

'Hello,' he returns.

'Aren't you a charming little thing?' Pretty slings one leg over another and orders a cocktail, one of those colourful drinks with a fucking umbrella and cherry in them. 'Look at you an' your pretty scars.'

Sebastian's mouth hangs open.

He always forgets, forgets about the spidery trail of scars across his face and his arms and every bit of his body there is to show for his explosive temper. He tells people that they're from the army, always the army - sometimes he gets admiring looks, others are of pity, and there's not a sliver of doubt to which he prefers - but forgets how many of them actually originate from drunken pub brawls; Sebastian is the angry sort of drunk, always swinging punches and trying to get himself killed. He got a smart mouth off his brother: at the thought, there's a pang in his chest, he almost misses Severin. Sebastian lost all contact with his family after he enlisted.

'Tongue-tied, sweetheart?' 

'I don't think you know what you're doing,' Sebastian says, and that's the wrong thing to say, for the man's grin fades and he leans in, eyes darkening immediately. 

'I think I do, in fact. I think I know exactly what I'm doing. I think I know what you're doing, too, whether you know it or not. I think, no, I know that you are ex-Colonel Sebastian "Tiger" Moran, son of Augustus Moran. I know that you wear coats with collars that go over the criss-crosses on your neck and that you first killed a man when you were eighteen, with your bare fists and some broken glass. I know that you're right-handed by birth but you've taught yourself how to write ambidextrously, and I know that you once fell off a high place and broke your ankle and that's why you walk funny when it's cold sometimes.'

'Who the fuck are you?'

Pretty smiles: it's dangerous. Toothy, sharp-edged.

'I can be whoever you want me to be, Tiger. So,' he leans back into his seat and sips his cocktail, eyes skating over Sebastian. Then he puts it down, tilts his head coyly. 'Entertain me.'

'I don't know what you want me to do.'

Sebastian's fingers curl around the knife. Pretty's eyes flick downwards. 'I've been stabbed, shot, burned, tortured and threatened before, Tiger,' he says. 'It gets repetitive after a while. Won't be any use, love. I want you to do something...strange. Surprise me.'

'You can go and fuck yourself.'

He throws his head back and laughs, and Sebastian knows he's fucked.

 

* * *

 

The senator's head explodes into bits of pink and red, and Sebastian's finger lifts off the trigger. He lets go of a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

'You're brilliant,' Boss breathes at his side, fingers squeezing Sebastian's shoulder so tightly it's as if he wants to leave a mark. 'Oh, Tiger, you're brilliant.'

Sebastian's body reacts badly when Boss pulls his fingers away and starts walking, already preoccupied with someone else on the other end of his cell. He chides himself for the surge of warmth almost immediately, wondering at himself for acting like a hormone-driven teenager. _Calm the fuck down, Sebastian, he's still a fucking psychopath._

Six months since he'd accepted the job offer.

Six months since he'd run into Pretty Boy here and fell head over heels, and he's still trying desperately to hide it.

Sebastian doesn't know why he tries so hard. It's not obvious - at least, he hopes - he doesn't stutter nor blush like a fucking teenage girl whenever Boss addresses him with that Irish lilt, though he's gotta admit it's sexy as all fuck. It's not even like he's angry at himself for turning out gay after all, after all those years of Severin laughing at him for joining the marching band in secondary. No, it ain't that: he'd be fine if it were any other man, any other reason for this stupid crush. Some part of him, somewhere, hates that he feels this way for a man like his boss.

'Coming, Tiger?'

Sebastian straightens, takes apart his rifle and drops it part by part into his haversack. His actions are deliberate, precise; he knows he's making Boss wait and he's savouring every minute of it.

'Tiger.' Boss' voice has dropped, and when Sebastian looks up, his gaze falters.

Boss always looks polished, like a black diamond, but now he looks positively, frighteningly attractive. His black hair is slicked loosely to the side, a few strands astray, adding to the dishevelled, sexy look it was going for just then. He's dressed in a suit tailored to his form, cut in a way that leaves little scope for imagination, to the fine curves of Boss' body, his petite yet shapely hips and his long legs fitted in black. Sebastian tries to ignore the thunking noise he hears in his head as his thoughts all go blank. He's fiercely aware of his own speeding heart beat.

'I'm coming,' he manages, shouldering his haversack.

Boss' dark eyes shimmer with amusement. He seems to consider Sebastian for a while, before nodding and turning out the door.

 

* * *

 

 The sex is phenomenal.

The first time is when Jim catches hold of Sebastian's tie - a blue affair that took him forever to wrap his mind around - and yanks, hard, onto his knees. Sebastian is caught off guard, but he plays along, and is glad he did.

Because  _fuck,_ Jim is perfect.

Sebastian manages to coax little sounds out of his Boss he never knew the Irishman could make, whines and huffs and  _yes, Tiger, there, more, please_ and he revels in it, hitting climax with an audible gasp every time as Jim slides in between his thighs, breathing laboured. He knows how to make Jim twist in agony, and Jim knows how to make Sebastian beg in return, sitting on his lap with eyes glittering darkly - especially so whenever Sebastian says something particularly amusing. And Jim does so love to laugh at whatever Sebastian says.

Sebastian suspects Jim may be a sado-masochist after all.

He knows he isn't exclusive. They aren't exclusive. Jim hops into bed for business and pleasure; Sebastian knows that well, having walked into a session once - Jim had needled him endlessly after that one, and Sebastian still had the scars from when Jim lost his temper - but he takes small comfort in knowing that when it comes to him, Jim searches for neither, only an escape from his busy life.

It's a stupid comfort.

Jim doesn't let him kiss him. Sebastian tries it, once, and gets a slap across the face for his trouble, making his cheeks smart for minutes after. Their relationship isn't the lovey-dovey type, and judging by that, Sebastian should have left well enough alone. Thing is, he's never been very good at walking away.

He just wasn't bred that way.

Jim leaves little marks all over him, whether their origin be the tiny pocket knife Jim likes to carry around for protection - when Sebastian had pointed out that the attacker might have a gun, the knife had been used on him - or a new "toy" or Jim's teeth and nails, scraping over, sometimes breaking, Sebastian's skin. Jim's drawn blood, Jim's threatened to do worse, to cut off a body part or damage a vital organ. Jim has his moods. But all in all he is Boss, and he is a pretty boy, and Sebastian can't bring himself to lose or leave him, whichever seemed worse.

Sometimes they play a game to see who succumbs to the temptation first. If Jim will be the one to grab Sebastian by the collar and drag him to the bedroom or if Sebastian will snap and drop to his knees before his Boss. It somehow rarely turns out to be the former.

Sebastian may love Jim, and Sebastian may hate Jim, but he is also fiercely aware that he is easily manipulated by Jim. He's a simple person, after all.

Guns and booze and sex. That's what gets his blood pumping. Jim is a different sort of creature; he's a genius and he's a madman, he smiles like a sadist and begs like a masochist, he spouts wonderful, beautiful sentences full of complexities and new understandings and ramblings and has the mind capacity to store them all. Jim is ideas and blood and insomnia, he is the dark circles under Sebastian's eyes and the sting of sweat on the sniper's skin after an elimination. 

And Jim will kill him, Jim will be the breath Sebastian takes in moments before the bullet hits home or his ribs break. 

Jim will be the absolute death of him.

 

* * *

 

'Your sniper's in love with you,' Irene Adler says one day, and Sebastian sits up erect, face flushing bright red. The blood rushes from his face, he hears it roaring in his ears. Irene gives him a small predatory smile - the woman is scary as all fuck, and manipulative, too - and Jim snorts, pops a bubble on his lips. Who got him bubble gum, Sebastian is afraid to ask; that was either the best or worst idea ever and Sebastian isn't going to complain...yet.

'I know.'

And that hurts.

It feels like the world is crashing down around Sebastian Moran.

He chokes on his tea and Jim shoots him an amused look, slinging one leg over the other and returning his attention to Irene. 'I know,' he repeats, in a maddeningly nonchalant manner. 'Oh, don't be boring, Tiger. I know. Of course I know. But it hasn't gotten in the way of anything, yet, so it shouldn't matter. No, it shouldn't matter.'

Irene and him share a smile, and then go back to talking business and it's as if Sebastian never existed.

With that, Sebastian feels like he is dying. Like he's back in the army with a bullet wound in his shoulder and he's bleeding out and no one seems to want to rush to his aid.

Jim doesn't treat him any different after the episode. They still have sex before jobs, sometimes during them - Sebastian particularly remembers swallowing a loud yelp as his finger nearly slips from the trigger. But it is different, to Sebastian; he's angry to be found out like this, and he wishes something, anything would change. 

It doesn't.

He starts drinking again, after jobs, when Jim's out on business trips; he has sex with anyone he can find, but they're not Jim. They don't last. Because Sebastian is stubborn, just like all the Morans are. And he can't find someone like Jim, Jim is once in a lifetime, Jim is Pretty Boy and Boss and Jim is the best sex he's ever had in his entire life.

And fuck if that doesn't set Sebastian on fire inside and out, the fact that he'll never be able to settle with an ordinary, simple-minded human, because there is Jim fucking Moriarty in his life.

The drinking doesn't cure his insomnia, but it doesn't affect his performance. Jim still fixes him with an appraising look when he's shot down the target. He doesn't question where Sebastian disappears to every now and then, but Sebastian can tell it's irking him. 

Jim likes to think he knows everything.

But Sebastian's always surprised him.

He wakes up in the bed of a different person almost every morning. Sometimes it's messy, Sebastian has to pull away and try to shake off the clingy requests and questions; sometimes not so much, the most reception he gets of his departure a pair of bright, sleepy eyes watching him leave. He remembers one in particular, a small man with dirty blond hair and a sad smile sitting up and curling the bedclothes around his fingers - and weren't those fingers fine - maddeningly watching as Sebastian struggled with his belt and then left without a word. 

In another life, Sebastian can be happy with someone like that.

In this life, all he can do is dream about it.

 

* * *

 

Sebastian swings, smashes his fist into the man's face over and over, until his bulbous nose is nothing but a squashed tomato, dripping blood. Jim looks on appraisingly, hands in his pockets and hips swaying as Sebastian vents, grabs the offender by the collar and swings again. Again. The cries of protest and apology become weaker. Finally they stop - he's either dead or unconscious, and Sebastian doesn't want to know which. He drops the man and glances at his knuckles, red blooming over them. They'll be bruised horribly by tonight.

'Someone's pissed my Tiger off,' Jim remarks loftily, and Sebastian doesn't look at him, only dislodges the Beholla from the unconscious man's belt and snaps it in two.

'He threatened you.'

'I'm always threatened, Tiger.' Jim's grin is irritating, all sadism and secrecy and darkness and toying with Sebastian's mind. 'But you've never reacted this way, before. Are the drinks getting to your head, hmm?'

Sebastian says nothing, but his cheeks burn.

They do even more when Jim hits him, the rings on his hand connecting with Sebastian's cheekbones. Sebastian stands there and takes the heat, even when he knows he'll have new bruises for it.  

His knees buckle when Jim kicks lazily at them. Jim's done this all before, it's nowhere near new to Sebastian. It would seem like punishment to an outsider, but Sebastian has been working under Jim for much too long to make the presumptuous mistake that Jim would ever deem him worthy of punishment. 

He hates it. He hates this feeling.

'Tiger, over here,' Jim calls for his attention, and one of his pretty dress shoes land on Sebastian's chest heavily. He tries hard to regulate his breathing, but it's slipping beyond his control.

_He's a fuckin' sadist, he's a fuckin' psychopath, he's going to fuckin' kill me one of these days and all I'll do is smile at him, hoping something will change right before he does. Right before he jams a gun into my mouth or puts a bullet in my eye._

Sebastian is let down again when Jim simply steps off of him, something flashing in his dark eyes, and commands him to stand. Slowly he does, finding the feeling in his legs before he clambers up unsteadily. Jim stares at him, and Sebastian wishes it didn't so turn him on, those murderous eyes trained intently on his face. He gives a glance in return, but keeps his eyes downwards, staring at his feet.

Evidently that's the wrong thing to do again, for Jim hisses under his breath and stomps off, his shoes clicking on the ground.

Sebastian stares after him.

Or maybe it was the right thing to do.

 

* * *

 

They fuck and they fight, and their fights are the worst and the best.

Sebastian can't decide which he enjoys more.

Jim stands there and hits him until Sebastian's ears are ringing and he can taste blood caked in his teeth and yet he stands, stoic, waiting for Jim to finish, being...polite. Till he can't and the adrenaline drowns him and he fights back. The first blow breaks Jim's nose with a _snap,_ and Jim snarls, a flash of silver and Sebastian stumbles backwards, blood dripping from the precise, deep cut Jim's just made on his cheek.

He didn't see the knife.

He raises a hand to his face but Jim's already moving, the knife posed in his slender waxy fingers. Sebastian's hand clamps around Jim's and twists; Jim winces but he holds his own anyway. Sebastian has to yank his own hand away, his wrist twisted at a horrid, jaunty angle. The pain makes him dizzy and so does the laceration on his face, but he knows Jim will kill him if he stops.

 _'Stop taking your shit out on me,'_ Sebastian growls, and Jim freezes. 

Manic come into his dark eyes and he darts forward, swift, cutting before Sebastian's restraining defences and slashing again. Sebastian's shirt is ripped open, bloodied buttons fly. The blond bites back his holler and inches around Jim, wary, wounded.

'You're a pet,' Jim's words grate worse than the knife did. 'You're a pet and you're supposed to take it like  _a good Tiger.'_

He comes forward again but this time Sebastian is ready, he smacks the blow as it comes and the blade flies, strikes the wall and slides down innocently. Jim isn't fazed; he's breathing funny and looking at Sebastian with a slight tilt of his head and a glazed look in his eyes. His fists are balled, and Sebastian knows from experience that one, those fists fucking hurt, two, the bastard has rings that will cut into Sebastian's face like carving into meat.

He claws at his wound, throbbing over his sternum, and there's red coming over his vision.

Jim's dabbing at his bleeding nose. Sebastian takes the time to hold his throbbing, bruised hand to his bleeding chest, as if that will help stem the flow. It doesn't, but perhaps that is better; he feels light-headed, like he can pass out of blood loss any minute now.

They don't talk when they go at each other again, Sebastian welcoming the blows hungrily, angrily, and Jim giving them just so. 

 

* * *

 

Things are bound to go wrong. 

Their fights get worse. 

Their sex gets infuriatingly better.

Sebastian's hands keep reaching for a bottle that isn't there.

Things have already gone wrong.

 

* * *

 

Sebastian's smiling at the woman on his right, sipping at his drink when Jim arrives. 

The split second of alarm shifts to shock as Jim's voice slips into a sultry accent, claiming that he was here, _Tiger,_ and then all of Sebastian's thoughts fade to grey as Jim presses a soft kiss to his chapped, hanging open lips. The woman he was talking to, turning his charm on flushes, and she walks away with her drink untouched. Sebastian's self-control gathers when he sees her approaching a tall brunet and he snaps to attention, yanking his face away.

'What the fuck.'

'She has a husband and three kids,' Jim smiles, leaping onto the newly vacated chair. 'I was doing you a favour. And really, Sebastian, you can do better.'

_No, I can't, because honestly they could have a secret clown lover in Bangkok and I'd still fuck them to forget you._

'I appreciate the sentiment, but Boss, I'm not working right now.' Sebastian hopes Jim can take a fucking hint and go home. 

'I wanted to talk outside of work,' Jim can take a hint, but he will not necessarily humour it. He orders a drink, and settles into the chair. He's dressed in a white dress shirt, blue jeans and has a pair of reading glasses on his nose. Sebastian wants to both murder him and fuck him senseless.

He mentally drops his head into his hands. 

Once he'd tried convincing himself that he didn't really love Jim, he just was really turned on by small, intimidating men in suits and with Irish accents. But who the fuck was he trying to convince? He loves Jim in all his moods, when he's angry and taking it out on Sebastian with his handy little knife and iron-edged blows, when he's being infuriatingly, maddeningly sexy in the way he leans forward to issue a threat to someone else and when he's making little noises that make Sebastian's knees tremble, Sebastian loves them all, because that is the Jim he fell hopelessly in love with. 

_He could wear a fuckin' tutu into gunfire and I'd still be turned on._

'Tiger, I'm talking to you.'

Sebastian slowly turns towards Jim, who's staring at him over his cocktail. Always the fucking cocktail, as if Jim only knows how to take drinks with a fucking cherry on top. 

'Better. Now, see, let's get straight to the point, hmm? You're in love with me.'

Sebastian freezes, but Jim's barreling on mercilessly. 

'You love me, or you think you do.' He says matter-of-factly, twirling the cherry stalk. 'And at the start it was flattering, so I let it slide. It doesn't affect your aim. It doesn't affect your respect or self-discipline, but  _Tiger,_ it's killing you, isn't it?'

'You don't know jack-shit about -'

'Aah, but I do. I know you, Sebastian. I know you in the way the people you take to bed don't, in the way people like her -' Jim jerks his head at the woman from before, now hanging off the brunet's arm and giggling. 'They don't know you, but I do. I know you have nightmares about the time you served in the army and the man you killed when you were eighteen and every man since then. I know where you like to be touched and where you'll beg for it and how to make you beg for it.' He leans in and Sebastian can't breathe, he's choking on breaths he didn't take. 'I know what makes you tick and what can break you, Tiger. And you love me. I know you love me. And I know it's killing you to even think about me and the possibility of me being yours.'

Sebastian stays quiet, stationary, because he's sure that if he moves or speaks he will do something he regrets.

He wants to kiss Jim and fuck Jim and hold Jim and cry, and it is killing him. It fucking  _is._

'Here's the thing, Tiger.'

_Fuck._

'I'm firing you.'

'You're...what the fuck? You're firing me because I can't keep it in my pants around you?' Anger jolts through Sebastian before the hurt does, but when the wave of the latter does come, it's cold and merciless. 

And it's freezing.

Jim smiles cruelly. 'We both know that it's not about sex, Sebastian, it's never sex with you. I wouldn't mind if all I did to you was turn you on. In fact, it delights me. What I cannot stand is that you want us to be an item. You think I can be...domesticated,' He nearly spits the word, and Sebastian sees the indignation in his dark eyes, and it is the reason he is dying. 'I will never be yours, Sebastian. Not exclusively. You are a pet, you are a trained tiger I can so easily replace and you have the audacity to fall in love with me.'

Every word hurts, every word is a fucking dagger that strikes home in wounds opened a long time ago. 

Sebastian lowers his head.

If his hands ball into fists under the table, Jim doesn't notice, or ignores that they do. 

'It's over, Tiger.'

He catches a glimpse of Jim's face as he leaves...it's frighteningly pale, and almost triumphant.

 

* * *

  

Sebastian is stupid if he thinks Jim will just let him walk away.

The man following him testifies to that. 

Sebastian easily overcomes him, breaks his neck and takes his gun. His old rifle he had to return; one of Jim's men simply showed up on the doorstep with his arms outstretched. Sebastian wishes it were as Jim said, over, so these people would stop trying to kill him one by one. 

When he kills the fourth one easily, Sebastian wonders if Jim is deliberately lengthening his torment. 

Sebastian doesn't have monthly income for jobs from Jim anymore, those fat stacks of cheques that kept him alive and thriving, and it feels like the world's been ripped out from under him. He works as much as he can, into the night and early in the morning. He deliberately overworks himself, because working makes him feel in control. Working makes him feel like he's got his shit together. It pays the bills, anyhow, and if Sebastian goes hungry sometimes, he doesn't mention it.

He drinks. He fucks. He starts fights and runs away from them.

Every girl on his arm giggles and whispers their name, slips their number into his hand and promises to call back. Sebastian blocks their Facebook requests, deletes the entire damn account - it's a faux one under the name  _Rin Moran,_ something to remember his brother by - and trashes the slips of paper.

One night stands should ease the loss a little, take on a bit of the loneliness, but they don't; in stark comparison, the men he beds don't come close to Jim and the women strain to even turn Sebastian on.

He still wants Jim. He wants him so keenly it slices into him every time he wakes up next to someone he doesn't know. 

He thinks of Jim every time he sees a dark haired man in a suit, but of course it's never him. That would be too easy. Sebastian only gets through because he's confident he'll never see Jim again.

And perhaps that would have been a better alternative.

 

* * *

 

 The call comes when Sebastian is at work.

_'Is this Colonel Moran?'_

'Retired,' Sebastian snaps. Is it one of those officers who served with him, asking him to attend another reunion? He fucking hates those things, all stuffy with people he doesn't remember and doesn't want to in their uniforms and credentials and badges of service gleaming on their chests. Small talk, as if Sebastian has suddenly become one of them, those grouchy old men who stood by the sidelines and watched as soldiers died. 'I'm currently busy, so -'

_'I'm calling about Mr Moriarty.'_

Sebastian's blood goes cold; he's gone a year without hearing that name and yet in every one of those 365 days Jim has been fresh on his mind. He considers hanging up, but curiosity overrides all his common sense. He's always been that way with Jim, impulsive.

'The fuck did he do this time?'

_'You were his sniper, weren't you? We met, briefly, when you shot the Russian politician. I'm Mikael.'_

'I'm at work, Mikael.' Sebastian vaguely remembers blue eyes and a stern look on a freckled face. He sucks in a deep breath, waits for the news to digest with his former colleague, and shuffles the papers on his desk. He never thought he would be degraded to a bloody secretary, but here he is now. Life's a funny thing. 'I'm sorry, but I don't work for Ji - for Moriarty anymore, and I'm not in the mood to dig up that part of my past life.'

_'Mr Moriarty's disappeared.'_

'What?'

Sebastian says it so loudly one of his colleagues, a blonde girl named Kirstie, glances at him in surprise. She's balancing paperwork in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other, eye bags evident on her otherwise clear, pretty face. 

He gives her an apologetic look.

 _Boyfriend,_ he nearly mouths, and opts out in time.

_'Exactly what I said. He went to this part of...well, slum London few weeks ago, wouldn't let any of us come, said he was going to handle it himself. He went off our radar, and his cell signal reads somewhere in the bottom of the Thames river. It's not unlike Mr Moriarty to disappear, but we were wondering if you knew anything about it.'_

It could be a trick, Sebastian analyses, judging by how it's been a year and still killers show up on his doorstep to try and murder him.

But something deeper in him stirs. He remembers the thrill of squeezing the trigger and seeing brains fly, he remembers the sounds Jim could make and the kiss they shared moments before Jim informed him he was fired. And that part of him is irrational: it was the first part to fall in love with Jim and the last part to let go of him, and seeing as how it is throbbing oh so painfully now, it had never really let go of him, either.

But irrationality plays a big part in Sebastian's life.

He pushes his thoughts around, chases an ant around his desk with the tip of a ballpoint pen. 

_'Colonel?'_

'Retired,' Sebastian repeats. 'Please don't call me that.'

_This is stupid. This is fuckin' stupid and I have to stop._

_'I apologise, Mr Moran. Do you happen to know if Mr Moriarty -'_

'Where did you say he disappeared to?'

 

* * *

 

Sebastian sees Jim lying in the dark and his heart nearly stops altogether.

'No, no, fuck -'

Behind Sebastian lie the corpses of the men who dared touch Jim, their ribcages caved in and blood forming small puddles around their bodies. Sebastian doesn't remember fighting them, but he does remember killing them: the metallic taste of retribution sweet in his mouth and his fists tingling from excitement, adrenaline. He doesn't remember the last time he felt this way, but yet, he does. 

With Jim.

Jim.

_'Jim.'_

_Don't be dead. Don't be dead, please don't be dead. I need you, Jim, I need you..._

Sebastian falls to his knees beside Jim's unmoving body. The man's been tied up, his ankles and hands cuffed in rope behind him, but he lies motionless on the floor, eyes closed. Sebastian nearly sobs with relief when he hears the soft breaths Jim is taking. He reaches out to untie Jim and stops short of it, thinking of that night in the bar. That fucking night. The cocktail with the cherry on top.

_It's over, Tiger._

The world shudders around him and Sebastian retracts his hands, looking at Jim.

Something hurts in his chest, something like his heart ramming against his ribcage so hard he's afraid it'll break out.

There're bruises on Jim's face and knuckles, bruises that make Sebastian's fists tingle again, make the blood trickling from his nose burn hot against his skin as it drips from his chin. Sebastian lifts a hand to wipe it away, a red smudge over his face that stings. _In this moment I could kill him,_ he thinks, looking at the pale-faced Irishman as he sleeps.  _In this moment he's vulnerable and he's quiet and he -_

_He's fuckin' beautiful._

Sebastian doesn't know what he's doing, but when he does he is screaming at himself to stop.

He kisses Jim, ever so softly as to not wake him, kisses him like he's kissing a lover who won't wake up and look at him. He kisses Jim like it's his first fucking kiss in his entire fucking life, kissing like a tentative school girl behind the school during recess. Jim's lips are soft and warm, and they are addictive - it takes forever for Sebastian to finally pull away, and when he does he yearns to do it again, again, to never stop. Then he curses and drops his head into his hands, telling himself that he's an idiot and that he'll always be an idiot.

Sebastian calls Mikael, tells him where he is and leaves before the latter comes.

He doesn't think he can bear it if Jim wakes up.

 

* * *

 

Sebastian slides out of his car and draws in a deep breath, glad to be home. He kills the engine and starts towards his apartment, pushing a hand into his pockets.

It's been a month since Jim.

Since Jim.

_Jim._

'Fuck off,' He tells himself, and unlocks his front door. 

_Fuck._

The lights are on, furniture is scattered. He's been fucking burglared? That's the stupidest fucking thing to happen to him yet. Sebastian curses and reaches for the pistol he keeps on his person, fingers curling around it securely.

He's always been  _guns and booze and sex._

_Now I'm just flattering myself._

'If you're still here, I'm giving you a chance to get the fuck away and let the cops deal with you so you don't have to meet me,' he warns, raising his voice so it echoes in the empty space. No one answers. Sebastian bends over and picks up a fallen photograph, one of him and Severin smiling. He rightens it, then thinks better of it. The photograph lands on the pile of junk Sebastian keeps for nostalgia and that alone, and is never to be touched again.

Sebastian freezes when he sees Jim fucking Moriarty reclining in his living room armchair, the television tuned to Doctor Who - and he can only tell because the latest Doctor is a cranky asshole who says  _Shut up_ a lot - but that's besides the point because fucking  _Jim Moriarty is in his living room and he doesn't know what to do, because again **Jim fucking Moriarty is in his fucking living room.**_

'What the fuck,' Sebastian says, but his voice trembles. 

Jim turns, acknowledges that he's staring down the barrel of a gun.

'Oh, hello. Welcome back, Tiger.'

'What the  _fuck,'_ Sebastian repeats. 

Jim stands, and Sebastian stumbles backwards, trips over his own feet. He faces Sebastian with no expression on his face, but he hasn't changed at all, and that hurts more than anything Jim could ever say. Sebastian doesn't lower the gun. His fingers are quivering.

Jim raises both hands.

Sebastian lowers the gun.

They stare at each other from opposite ends of the room. A thousand feelings shoot through Sebastian at once, and he wants to run away. He holds his ground, despite the urge to flee, and wishes he was still pointing the gun at Jim...somehow, it made him less dangerous. Less intimidating. Jim takes a step towards Sebastian and the blond winces, hand flying to the other weapon he keeps on his person, the small knife in his jacket. 'Fuck off. No, stay the fuck away from me.'

'Tiger,' Jim says, like he's wounded.

'Do  _not_ call me that. I will fucking shoot you where you stand.'

As he speaks the ghost of a smile surfaces on Jim's pale face. 'No,' the Irishman says. 'No, no, you won't.'

'Fuckin' try me.'

Jim does; Jim takes another step and Sebastian doesn't shoot. He hates when Jim's right. He levels the gun, ignoring the small tremble in his fingers. 

'What the fuck do you want with me?'

'I wanted to say hi,' Jim pronounces. Sebastian wishes he could shoot him, that he could prove this fucking bastard wrong for once in his fucking life. 'Tiger, I wanted to see you.'

That shouldn't hurt so, him saying that. In that way. That shouldn't hurt at all. But it does, and the world spins, and Sebastian wants to die.

'I don't want to see you.' _I want to kiss you._

Jim's eyes are round and sad, like a kicked puppy's. Sebastian notices he's lost weight, and his heart aches. But he doesn't move, he doesn't speak. Jim comes forward, and Sebastian closes his eyes just as he feels the weight of Jim's dress shoes on his toes and the pull of Jim's fingers on his cheeks. His hands drop, the gun back to his side.

When Jim's lips touches his, Sebastian does the only thing he can.

Teeth knock against teeth as he surges forward, hands finding their way around Jim's hips, Jim's ones tangling in Sebastian's clothes. Jim gasps into the kiss but doesn't pull away, allowing Sebastian to joust him against the wall and ravish his lips, hungry, needy.  _'Tiger,'_ is the most sexy thing Sebastian has ever heard, and he revels in it, kissing, breaking away, hands roving. He thinks he can taste blood in his mouth, Jim's or his, maybe a mixture of both, but it gets him higher than a fucking satellite.

It feels like he's falling as he kisses Jim and the hunger turns into something deeper, as Jim slides down and starts undoing his zipper, already a tad too tight. Nimble hands free Sebastian, who didn't acknowledge the bulge until it's exposed, and more so when Jim takes it in, pink tongue sliding over surfaces starved for touch.

Sebastian whines, a horribly needy sound, and throws back his head, fingers carding through Jim's thick black hair as Jim tests the limits he can reach.

His hips jerk, and it's all he can do to remain in control, oh,  _fuck -_

_Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, Jesus Christ -_

_'Fuck, fuck - Jim - **J** **im -'**_

He feels climax approaching and whimpers, trying to pull away, but Jim's hands are secure on his inner thighs, ensnaring him in this compromising position. He's burning so hot he feels like he's on fire, the blood rushing to his head, making him twist.

Sebastian closes his eyes and tries to stop the sounds he's making, but it feels too good, Jim's mouth _Jim's mouth, fuck, Jim's mouth_ \- He gasps, short and clipped, and reels, trying to find his breath; he's lost it in the mixture of pleasure and torment. He thinks of nothing but Jim, Pretty Boy, Boss, Jim's able hands drawing his legs open and his fingers playing on Sebastian's thighs and his mouth -

He yanks hard on Jim's hair when he climaxes, dragging the Irishman's face upwards as a shiver overcomes him. 

Jim's eyes are glazed, he's panting heavily and he's the most beautiful thing Sebastian has ever seen. He licks at the residue on his lips absent-mindedly, a smile crossing his face. Sebastian wants him to look at him that way forever, he thinks, as he drags in huge grateful gulps of air and his fingers slacken from Jim's black curls. 

'I love you,' he says stupidly, and Jim fucking grins, that shit-eating grin he's been fucking dreaming of all his life.

 

* * *

 

Sebastian's eyes snap open to an alarm clock, beeping like it's hell on earth. He groggily rolls over and his breath snags as he feels someone move slightly next to him, fingers touch, hesitantly, his side.

'Good morning,' Jim Moriarty says.

Sebastian reaches over and turns the fucking alarm clock off.

Jim's lying on his back, naked, the bedclothes pooling around him. He's beautiful, and he's sexy as fuck, and he's Sebastian's. He's Sebastian's, and sometimes the blond doesn't quite believe that, and sometimes is now. He does, however, as Jim reaches a hand towards him and pulls his face closer, his eyes open and tired-like. 'Get rid of the bloody alarm clock, Tiger,' he says drowsily, half-awake. 

'Yes, sir.'

He mentally files it in for later.

'Mm.' Jim stretches, like a lazy cat working out the knots in its body in the morning. Sebastian watches, entranced. Then Jim's cell phone breaks the silence - fucking Bee Gees - and he answers it, the annoyance rippling off him in waves so strong Sebastian can feel it.

'This had better be important, or I will find you and I will skin you.'

Sebastian relapses back into silence, slinging his legs over the side of their bed - Sebastian's heart and ego swells at the claim that it is, in fact, their bed - and walking to the closet to pull out a new set of clothes and begin his morning toilet. There's blood on Sebastian's grey jacket, stains that the dry-cleaners didn't seem to be able to fix. Jim would be furious. He tucks it under his arm and muses over the selection, not noticing when Jim enters the room.

'Se - bas - tian.'

'Boss,' Sebastian replies, pulling out a nice Oxford dress shirt. Jim's arms wrap around him from behind, and for once Sebastian doesn't know what to say, because Jim may let him kiss him now, and tuck him to sleep, but he's never the cuddly type. He wants something. Sebastian arches his back cautiously and is surprised when he feels Jim's face resting into his back, nestling into his nightshirt sleepily.

'Boss -'

Sebastian doesn't know what to feel, anymore.

He's numb as he succumbs to Jim's touch.

In a way, he's always been.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
